


Drown In You

by khasael



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Scent Marking, Short, Smut, Stiles Stilinski's Scent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 08:57:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17805002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khasael/pseuds/khasael
Summary: Sometimes, Derek gives in to his baser wolf instincts. Sometimes it works out WAY better than he expected.





	Drown In You

**Author's Note:**

> This came out of nowhere and smacked me upside the head, fully formed this afternoon. Jotted it down on my phone's Notes app within 15 mins and now posting here. Little smutty one-shot, unrelated to any of my other fics/series.

Stiles is gone, but his scent’s still here. It’s everywhere, in everything, and Derek both wants to escape it and drown in it. It’s been a Herculean task, keeping his mouth shut and his hands off, but now that he’s alone, he can finally at least indulge himself with a bit of fantasy.

The recliner where Stiles had sat only ten minutes before still retains some of his heat, and Derek leans back in it, relishing the warmth against his skin, and pops the button of his jeans and unzips them as far as they go, slipping one hand down past the waistband of his underwear. It doesn’t take long for him to get hard—just a few light strokes and squeezes while he holds the image of Stiles chewing on his lower lip in his mind, and Derek tips his head back with a sigh, shoving his jeans as far down on his hips as he can get them without standing back up. Something grazes the top of his head—Stiles’ over-shirt, left here, forgotten or unwanted, and Derek pulls it down with his free hand so it covers his whole face and presses the cotton against his nose.

The scent of Stiles fills his lungs, fills his head, and Derek breathes deeply—long, slow breaths that quicken the longer he touches himself, the more he lets himself recall: the moles on Stiles’ neck, especially the one that jumps minutely in time with his pulse; the angle and subtle shadows of his collarbone; his eyelashes, so long and thick, brushing against his cheek before he looks up at Derek; his tongue, licking the bit of syrup from the inside of his wrist at breakfast; his mouth, red and wet and slightly open, so soft and supple and inviting. The air he breathes is heavy with the scent of Stiles, so thick Derek can almost taste him. The only sounds are his harsh pants and quiet whimpers as he approaches his climax, the soft slapping sound as he jerks himself off harder, all of it underneath the pounding bass line that is his speeding heartbeat.

He comes with Stiles’s name on his lips, Stiles’s shirt shoved firmly against his nose and mouth, and he hears his own name in response, the voice choked and oh-so familiar.

The shirt falls down onto his chest as his muscles tense in another whole-body spasm, the last few pulses of his release marking his stomach only an inch or two below the fabric. Derek’s eyes meet the wide-open ones staring at him from the doorway, and Derek feels the sickly caress of shame before he notices Stiles’s hands, one on the doorknob and one around his keys, both so tight that his knuckles are white. When he flicks his eyes back to Stiles’ face, what he sees are cheeks that are flushed bright red, a mouth parted and slightly slack with lips wet and shiny, and soft brown eyes that are round and open wide in surprise, the irises only a thin ring around pupils that are so, so wide.

They stare at each other, and Derek can smell Stiles’s arousal as it hits him like a moving wall, can finally make out the rapid heartbeat that isn’t his own, can hear the whine from Stiles’ throat, the pitch too high for human ears. “Stiles,” he says again, not a cry ripped from him this time, just the name in a quiet rasp, softly imploring, coaxing.

Stiles’ jaw works, his mouth opening and closing without words, without sounds, only a shaky breath escaping before he makes a decision, striding swiftly towards Derek and dropping his weight down, not caring at all about the mess on Derek’s stomach and straddling one of Derek’s legs. He moans when Derek gets a hand on the back of his head and pulls him in closer, fitting their mouths together. It’s Stiles’ tongue that slips past Derek’s parted lips, licking in like he’s desperate for it, and it’s Stiles’s hand that slides over Derek’s right pectoral muscle and up to his neck, aware of what he’s doing in rubbing his scent into Derek’s skin, finding a way to burn it as deep into him as Derek’s always wanted it to go.

**Author's Note:**

> For those who were hoping my next fic would be part of the Hale and Hearty series, I apologize. I'm neck-deep in a novel-length thing (not part of any of the fandoms I write via this account, and won't be posted here), but my scheduled project once THAT thing is done is indeed the next Hale & Hearty installment, which is definitely not abandoned. I have a handful of LONG fics on my plate, and about half of them are Sterek, but it's A Process.
> 
> In the meantime, hope you enjoyed this brief little bit of smut!


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